


A Noble Endeavor

by Laeviss



Series: Wranduin Week 2020 [8]
Category: Warcraft - All Media Types, World of Warcraft, World of Warcraft - Various Authors
Genre: Baking Cookies Gone Wrong, Cultural Differences, M/M, Misunderstandings, The Feast of Winter Veil, Wranduin Week 2020, Wrathion and Anduin publicly dating
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-12-25
Updated: 2020-12-25
Packaged: 2021-03-11 00:40:41
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,475
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/28316157
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Laeviss/pseuds/Laeviss
Summary: Wrathion makes his first public appearance as Anduin's romantic partner at a Winter Veil feast. Everything seems to be going well until a surprise dessert arrives at the other end of the royal table. Written for the Wranduin Week Holiday Event Day 3 prompt "Baking Cookies Gone Wrong"
Relationships: Wrathion/Anduin Wrynn
Series: Wranduin Week 2020 [8]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/1914982
Comments: 12
Kudos: 30





	A Noble Endeavor

Wrathion had, he was pleased to admit, made it through the first three courses of the Winter Veil feast without a hitch. The forks and knives had been placed precisely as his agents had speculated, and despite his distaste for greens, the salad course had proven to be palatable—pleasant, even.

As he cut into his venison roast, revealing a thick stuffing of rice, spices, and fruit nestled in its succulent flesh, he had even managed a compliment to the chef that had been well received by the nobles seated across from him. Anduin had cast him a gentle smile, and even Genn Greymane, with his cravat pinned so tightly around his neck that his cheeks had gone flush, looked slightly less unpleasant than Wrathion had anticipated. 

Lifting his glass, he brought it to his lips. With a slight flick of his wrist he downed the final swig of Dalaran Red, grinning as it warmed his throat. After relaxing into his high-backed chair, he set down the glass and folded his hands. On the gravy basin’s sleek surface he caught a glimpse of his own distorted reflection: his cheeks brightened, and his mouth curled into a confident smirk. 

A neat row of servants filed in from the far corner of the banquet hall, white aprons flapping and hands templed under silver trays born at their chests. The nobles shifted, fanning out their skirts and tailcoats and jostling to catch a glimpse of the parade over their shoulders. Tilting his chin, Wrathion followed their gaze. Anduin slid a hand onto the table and gently rested his fingers atop the dragon’s. On his left, another servant removed his wide-bowled glass and replaced it with a slim flute. 

Anduin gave his hand a squeeze before withdrawing and clearing his throat. “Okay,” he started. His voice quivered on the first sound, betraying a hint of uncertainty in his role as master of the feast. After a swallow Wrathion could hear, he tried again, clearer, as if reciting from a scroll of parchment:

“I want to thank you, once again, for joining us on this Winter Veil evening. It has been a difficult year for Azeroth, full of strife and triumph and new beginnings.”

A few eyes flicked in Wrathion’s direction, but his expression remained unchanged. Their courtship announcement three weeks prior had jostled more than a few of the nobles seated with them at the table that night, but Wrathion knew they would hesitate to cause a scene.

Complaints against the king were for hastily scribbled letters, platitudes with a backhanded sting, not for official dinners at the royal court. Even Count Ridgewell, for all his bristling and dabbing at his lips, would reserve his judgement for the midnight reception, when the royal couple had gracefully wandered out of earshot.

Smoothing out his blue-and-gold embroidered tunic, Wrathion smirked until his mouth ached at the corners. Beside him, the king continued, his words quickening from practiced to heartfelt:

“Yet even in the darkest night, the Light blesses us with its warmth. Let its glow be a herald of better times to come, for Stormwind and for our allies across Azeroth.”

A soft murmur swept down the table. Heads adorned with ostentatious crowns bobbed and swayed. The procession of servants lined up against the wall, their eyes politely downcast and their trays held still in front of them. 

Licking his lips, Anduin inhaled, removing his hand from Wrathion’s sleeve to cup it, with the other, above his plate. He closed his eyes and murmured under his breath in a tongue Wrathion recognized but couldn’t comprehend. Under his thick, blond lashes, his eyes glowed a brilliant gold, chasing back the dark circles hanging beneath them. 

Something warm kissed Wrathion between his brows, before twisting into a draenic shape, stretching up towards the sky at its peak. Wrathion’s heart fluttered, a deep sense of fulfillment washing over him like a warm shower from his shoulders to the pit of his chest.

It shimmered, then quivered, then vanished, leaving a dimmer kind of satisfaction with the power to last through the evening. Every face around the table glowed brighter; some gingerly touched their foreheads where the runes had dissipated, others smoothed out their gowns and smiled gratefully in the High King’s direction.

Wrathion slid a hand under the table and gave Anduin’s thigh a pat, soothing the weary exhale that had formed on his lips. They exchanged glances—Anduin beaming, and Wrathion quirking a brow. The longer he smirked, the brighter the king’s cheeks became. 

Behind them, something popped that made them both sit up straighter in their chairs. One of the servants lowered a bottle, pouring a bubbly, golden liquid first into Anduin’s flute, then into Genn’s, then, with a dip, into Wrathion’s, topping it to the brim with a thick white froth that fizzled down to ripples by the time every glass at the table had been filled. 

Lifting his glass, Anduin began again, refreshed, but a few shades redder than before: “To Stormwind, to victory over N’Zoth, to the House of Nobles, and to my honored guest, the Black Prince.”

Wrathion’s shoulder tensed, but he fought through to lift his glass aloft. To his surprise, several voices around the table murmured his name. His crimson gaze flitted between them. A white haired woman with a swan on her crown even nodded in his direction.

After pressing his glass to his lips and taking a sip, he lowered it, tinking his long nails against the stem in his haste to withdraw before the tremble in his wrist became visible. 

Thankfully, by the mercy, perhaps, of the Light, he thought with a bemused simper, the servants cut between the guests with their trays, lowering each to the table where the remnants of their supper had been. They placed a log-shaped cake adorned with holly between the Stormwind and Gilnean kings, and between Wrathion and Anduin, a rich pudding that one of them set alight with a snap of his fingers. 

Though the licking flames, Wrathion caught sight of a tiramisu placed in front of the Greymanes. Somewhere further down the table, a neat stack of cream-filled crepes set the green eyes of Amelie Lescovar dancing. 

It was only when Wrathion reached for his dessert fork and watched Anduin slice into the cake that he noticed a basket at the far end of the banquet. Wicker and dusted with gold, it contained a cluster of gray-violet domes with spiny protrusions emerging from smooth exteriors. 

When he narrowed his eyes and furrowed his brows, the details of the shapes came into focus. His heart leapt, then plummeted into his stomach. The fork balanced between his thumb and first finger slipped with a clatter to his plate. 

His jaw slackened. A few eyes darted in his direction, and even after clearing his throat and murmuring a smooth apology, his lips tightened, and his chin quivered beneath his beard. 

With a shrug, the human or two who had looked at him returned their attention to their plates. Even without their stares, it seemed as if a spotlight had been shown upon him. He shifted, pressing the toes of his boots into the marble beneath his chair. One hand moved to retrieve his fork while the other tightened around his armrest.

As he blinked and squinted and lost every ounce of composure he had fostered throughout the night, Anduin lowered a slice of cake onto his plate. It was round, dark around the edges, and swirled through with cream. He shoved a hasty bite into his mouth but his dry tongue couldn’t taste the sweetness. 

He swallowed without chewing, and felt the bite’s whole descent to his belly. Uncurling his fingers from the carved end of his armrest, he clamoured for another swig of champagne to wash it down. 

Then, one of the nobles reached for the basket. He took an egg, before passing the rest to his left, to a pale-faced woman who giggled when she added one to her plate. 

The blood drained from Wrathion’s cheeks. Any warmth left from Anduin’s blessing vanished; a chill set in at the base of his spine and inched upwards with icy fingers. It reached his neck, and he shook his curly head, shoving back his shoulder blades to mask the change in his posture. 

The dame seated on his left, Anduin’s great-grandmother, turned to him and remarked softly about pudding. She whispered something about currants and Westfall but he couldn’t gather his thoughts well enough to piece it together. When it was polite to look away he did so, his crimson gaze flying to the basket approaching down the other side of the table. One noble pointed and remarked on them from the corner of her mouth, while her companion openly laughed and scooped one up to plop down beside the crepe she had already taken.

Nearer now to the dragon, it was clear what the basket contained. Eggs. Black dragon eggs, so small they must have just been lain. Eggs that could have been taken to his lab and treated but which waited on the plates of nobles to be consumed alongside cakes and puddings.

He could hardly believe it. Why hadn’t a single one of many agents thought to warn him about this travesty? Why hadn’t Anduin, for all his kindness and all the grace he had shown Wrathion in the previous months, thought to put a stop to his court’s fiendish custom? 

How many times had Anduin sat at this table and consumed some poor broodmother’s stolen egg, with no thought to its source, nor to the risk its corruption might pose to him? One horrible realization after another tumbled in. A curl of smoke escaped between Wrathion’s tightly clenched teeth, and beneath his hair, his scalp prickled and burned. 

He pressed his palms beneath the table and thought to fling back his chair and snap. He froze, however, when he caught Ridgewell’s stare out of the corner of his eye. Using the heavy oak surface as leverage, he, instead, pressed his full weight into his chair until the back forced his spine to go rigid. He exhaled, inhaled, and jostled to catch the king’s eye. 

Three heads past Anduin, who, Wrathion realized, was caught in deep discussion with Genn, Tess Greymane leaned in and shot him a questioning look. She caught his eye and followed his gaze. Her expression softened. She pursed her lips and glanced back at him with a soft shake of her head.

Her black hair swayed against her white fur wrap, and her black brooch caught the light of the candle flickering in front of her. Even its glimmer couldn’t keep Wrathion’s eyes fixed upon it. Unable to make sense of what she was trying to tell him, he tore his attention from her shrug and back to the basket of eggs. 

It drew closer, past Count Ridgewell and into the long, bronze arms of a baroness Wrathion didn’t know by name. It made a few more stops before settling off to Dame Ellerian’s side. He craned his neck. She popped a bite of pudding into her mouth, before looking at him and smiling a toothy smile.

“Oh, Black Prince? Do you want one?”

“I—” _What?_ What in Azeroth’s name was this woman thinking? 

“Excuse me?” He managed, with none of his usual charm.

She wasn’t deterred by his tone, however. She chuckled and unfurled her free hand to poke into the half-folded black linen. “One of these eggs. Do you want one?”

The jump in her voice drew stares, including one from Anduin on his opposite side, who brightened and leaned against the top of his arm for a better look. “Oh, eggs you say? What kind of eggs?”

“Dragon eggs,” Wrathion heard himself gasp out. 

“Excuse me?” Anduin repeated, his eyes flying open as the flush drained from his cheeks. 

“Yes indeed,” Great-Grandmother Ellerian proclaimed, setting down her fork and plucking one corner of the linen. She tossed it to the side, revealing a diminished cluster of domes with spikes protruding from their shells.

Any momentary relief at Anduin’s indignation was swept away in a wave of confusion that crashed and churned and tugged at the dragon’s heart. They were eggs, but something was off. The shell shone a bit too glossy. The spikes were too thick to be sharp at the ends. 

No hint of warmth or power radiated from them, only a soft, cinnamon scent like the holiday castle constructed in Anduin’s room. 

“Look at them.” Dame Ellerian’s blue eyes glittered. She licked her thin lips and glanced between them. Neither man uttered a response.

Finally, she continued with a more tentative “The kitchen staff did a number this time, don’t you think?”

“OH!” Anduin nearly shouted. Wrathion pushed back into his seat so hard the front feet of it squeaked and groaned. His jaw fell, and his mind flew from one scenario to the next—this wasn’t some barbarous dismissal of dragon sovereignty, but a joke, played on him, to upset him or get a rise out of him, and he had—

Beside him, Anduin let out an awkward chuckle. He tucked back a lock of blond bangs below the band of his simple gold crown. His eyes darted from the basket, to Wrathion, and finally to the assembled staff, who watched him with hesitant smiles and their hands clenched politely against their abdomens. 

Anduin’s shoulders relaxed. He let out a breath and leaned across the dragon to scoop up an egg in his hands. “Oh,” he whispered, so quietly that only Wrathion could hear him. “I think they wanted to do something in your honor.”

“—Ah,” Wrathion managed. His tongue stuck to the floor of his mouth. After fighting off thoughts of a prank played at his expense, he tried again, poking the cookie in Anduin hand with the sharp point of his nail, “I see.”

“It’s gingerbread,” Anduin prompted, unnecessarily.

“Indeed it is,” Wrathion replied, through the dizzying haze that set in. 

Anduin lowered the egg onto his plate and cracked it with the edge of his spoon. Inside, a cream filling swirled into tufty peaks waited to be consumed. 

Scooping out a generous helping, Anduin placed it on the edge of Wrathion’s plate. He broke off a spine and set it down beside it, before taking apart the rest of the egg with the edge of his knife.

Willing his expression to smooth to a more natural smile and drawing back his shoulders until they ached, Wrathion picked up his fork and speared the spine with its prongs. The frosted almonds coating its exterior splintered, revealing the brown cookie waiting below. Without looking, he popped it in his mouth. Without chewing, he swallowed, and chased it down with a generous swig of champagne.


End file.
